Do you ever have one of those moments when the person you thought was a pornographer acquaintance/friend from a masturbation website is in fact the one person from your past that you hoped never entered your life ever again? My God the resemblance is uncanny, but I knew that without looking for her. I mean, the moment I met the porn player I knew who she looked like. I didn’t have to go find photos of the person I hoped never entered my life. Now that I clear the fog of denial and forgetting I remember that she probably still works, eats, sleeps, breathes and fucks right across the street from where I am presently sitting. Life is so amazingly simple that it can seem stupidly complicated. How does she find me? How do I find her? I mean, the second question answered the first. I clicked her up thinking she was someone else. 

Something similar happened soon after I got onto Facebook. I friended someone of 20+ mutual friends, unaware she was the woman who raped me over a decade earlier. She had gotten married and changed her last name and had no photo of herself so what the hell did I know from that common first name?  

But today was a total palm-to-face moment. I can still remember our encounters, so plodding and dismal but for some reason deemed necessary, and urgent. Grey. Dark grey. The kisses were mud, the fucking was dirt. This despite the fact I found her physically intoxicating. I could not look away until I had to close my eyes. Her touches came from somewhere unknown. Once my clothes came down the presence of this woman felt preposterous. She threw my clothes to where I had trouble finding them later, so she could laugh at me later, stumbling around naked, looking for pants. “NO CLOTHES!” she would announce. From another woman this would be excellence but from her it was a threat. Why did I go through with this? Why did I let her in almost every weekday morning, early, while her husband slept? How did I ever let this happen? I feel naked now just thinking about it, remembering that sensation of being stripped to my bare boner but not liking it. Other women had done this, other women would do this in the future, and it was magical or fun. With her my hardness came from fear and cowering, same as when the woman raped me. She told me to perform, I did what I was told. I’ve explained this to many women since it happened but none seem to understand how a man can be raped by a woman. You do as you are told. I said no, no, no, no. She said “I’m horny. Fuck me now.” The voice was angry, impatient, scolding. She held my face to her breasts. It forced me into motion, into performance. She begrudgingly took me into her mouth before angrily grunting at the penetration. You’d think we’d never fucked before when all she ever wanted was more. More.

I hate myself for admitting it but something about these memories of rape and unease turns me on. Here I am at the office, typing away tales of tormented sexual encounters, stifling a hardon while others blithely go about their business. I mean at least someone wanted me, right? If I stayed in abusive, toxic relationships longer than I should have I can at least let myself believe I was wanted.

Enough of that. Damn. I had other things to say. The woman I thought was so real turns out to be a little too real. We don’t get each other for anything except physical attraction, and for my part that doesn’t go very far. Our conversations suddenly hinged on me reading and feeling obligated to comment on extremely dense geopolitical and macroeconomic writings by former government officials from countries I’d never heard of. Everyone seems to think America is finished and I’m supposed to counter their opinions, or else simply analyze them. I am no stranger to dense writing but this shit feels like mud slow-caking into shit biscuits. 

And this matters to her. It matters a great deal. I cannot lie. I don’t care about the geopolitical machinations of a former low-level security operative from a country I can’t even remember the name of. And my disillusion (if it can even be called that) is furthered by the vagueness of her reasons for being concerned. It is nothing more than mental cud chewing.

Yeah, I’m a hot date. I’d rather go cruise Astoria for abandoned vehicles, or pianos. 

I almost forgot to take my pills today. I have backup pills in my bag but those pills are getting old and diluted. I take a full 2mg of Ativan on work days, 1mg on days off. I’m probably addicted without realizing it.

I am approaching the one year anniversary of my job here. I still feel a certain exuberance for simply having a place to be, something to do, and a structured environment in which to do it. I do not feel valued or appreciated, and I don’t feel like I have much of a future in government. But I am happy to be here. I still relish the commute. How long can that last? When does the bitterness begin?